


shouldn't carry heavy things

by bastaerd



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (to an extent!), Depression, Failed Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Sexual Dysfunction, Shame Edward Little Power Hour, nedward "too depressed to fuck" little, no editing we die like sir john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:15:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28192305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastaerd/pseuds/bastaerd
Summary: “You needn’t feel obliged,” Edward tells him quietly, as if Thomas is not guiding his hand, curling his fingers for him, and Thomas replies, “It’s not a question of obligation.”Then, he leans forward the scant few inches he can and kisses Edward again.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 20
Kudos: 45





	shouldn't carry heavy things

Edward has never been a dancer. His older sisters had tried to teach him, when they were young women and he younger still, only to scold him and laugh as he tripped over his own feet and trampled their toes. _Sit out the quadrille,_ they advised him, _lest your future wife’s first impression of you be that of your sole upon her instep._ Perhaps he ought to be a sailor, his eldest brother suggested once, supposing that the roll and buck of the rough water might cancel out his gracelessness.

He has found stability on the sea. Something in the rigidity of command, of the authority required during such an expedition, are able to afford him the peace of mind that is so hard to come by. Even in its uncertainty, there is a certain certainty in the rigging, the sails, the engines. The thought of another country dance has not come to him since leaving Greenhithe.

It does not make this dance any more bearable.

He and Thomas have been engaged in this two-steps-forward, one-step-back push-and-pull of a thing for weeks-- months, by now, certainly. It feels as if they have been embroiled in each other for longer than they have known each other as separate from this, which, though it surely is overly sentimental to call it so, does not diminish the feeling. They exchange brushes of the hands as easily and as invisibly as breath while in the company of others, and during the night, Thomas’ visits to Edward’s berth come with increasing frequency. The risk they face is no more bearable than the thought of ending this, and grows less and less tolerable by the week.

Thomas’ lips press, thin and soft, to Edward’s wind-bitten cheek, the slope of his nose to his brow. Edward draws in a breath, sighs it out raggedly as he holds Thomas by the waist. They sit on his bed, both facing one another, with one knee crooked to allow it, though they are so close that Thomas has risen up on his right leg so that he is poised somewhere between seated and straddling Edward’s thigh. The wool of his jumper itches against Edward’s thumbs as he strokes Thomas’ sides, his hands longing for more to do, more to touch, more of him. Thomas’ own hands hold him by either side of his face, cradling his head in those strong stewards’ fingers so that he can feel the calluses on his index finger from the needle, the comparative softness of the pad of his middle finger, where he wears his thimble. His chin brushes Edward’s whiskers.

“Do they tickle you?” Edward had asked him once, on an evening prior, and he had tucked his hair into place and smiled as if Edward had said something so naïve as to be amusing.

“No, sir,” Thomas had answered, plucking gently at them. “I rather hope you continue to maintain them. They’re wonderfully soft.”

There are barely enough men aboard Terror to count on both hands, plus the officers. It makes for a dangerous sort of paradise, the kind taken for granted by someone less careful than they, its linen-thin boundaries too easily tested. Thomas has one ear trained on the sound of the captain’s bell, ready to leave at a moment’s notice, should Crozier require him, and the thought that he might be pulled away from this in order to mop up sick and slop stings. That sting, then, makes Edward question what he offers that makes this the more appealing option. Cold, clumsy fingers, a graceless mouth, a wooden tongue.

Above him, Thomas presses a final kiss to his temple before drawing away, his hands still at Edward’s head so that his fingertips trail in the darkness of his hair. The sight of him, not even in any state of dishabille but so impossibly fond, dries Edward’s mouth, and he wets his lips, watching him.

“Sir,” says Thomas, and Edward replies, “No, not in this room.” It makes Thomas smile at him under his gaze, and though he does not say his name-- has never said his name in a context without necessary deference, though it does not escape either of them that, should they be caught in this, Edward will be stripped of his rank before they are hanged-- he spells it with something sweeter than letters against his lips. Edward recalls mention of Goodsir’s Inuktitut dictionary, and thinks of collecting a record of the language of Thomas Jopson and Edward Little, all its sighs and touches charted in some imaginary alphabet. No one but themselves would read it, and it would say-

His breath catches, throat poised to speak the words, and he gathers Thomas close to him instead, his arms wrapping about his back and hauling him in. Thomas stumbles on the bed, where he half-walks it on his knee, and his shoe scuffs against the floor. For a second, they both freeze; when no footfalls some running, nor any questioning voices, nor a concerned Irving or Hodgson to see about the noise, they resume their activity, Thomas letting out a breathy laugh he hides in the crook of Edward’s neck which both chills and warms his skin.

They spend time kissing, more time than they have allowed themselves yet. Doctor McDonald is with the captain, having volunteered to spell Thomas for the night for his health and sanity. That Thomas would choose to whittle away at his own hours of rest with Edward feels like a gift given at the expense of the giver, and even more so as Thomas opens his mouth, sucks at Edward’s lower lip until it feels reddened and swollen. His teeth scrape it, and upon the next kiss, he flicks his tongue against the spot as if in apology; Edward thinks to himself that there is no way Thomas could possibly wound him except by his absence. His hands sit at the blades of Thomas’ shoulders, feeling the flat of them in line with his back and their arch as he moves his arms, cupping Edward’s jaw now, angling his head so that their mouths create a fleeting seal of breath and warmth with one another. He feels ashamed for his timidity and hopes that Thomas understands it is not for lack of desire, but lack of knowledge in the same way a starving man’s stomach shrinks.

“I want you to keep me,” he whispers, and Thomas drops his head against Edward’s shoulder. He feels him give a short laugh, and when he lifts his head again, his eyes are half-lidded, brows knit and drawn upwards. Perhaps he should not have said such a thing, not right now, though that does not refute the truth of it.

“Whether you wanted me to or not,” Thomas replies, his voice equally as soft, such that the words come on the consonants alone, “I would.” He punctuates it with a kiss to Edward’s mouth, to his jaw, to the soft spot beneath his ear, and as he does, he settles himself over Edward’s thigh. His mouth pauses, parted, and Edward can feel the brush of his lashes against his neck as his eyes close. For a moment, they are both still, until Edward shifts his leg, the muscle in his thigh tensing, and Thomas pushes himself down against it in earnest. Thomas’ left leg shudders; it is weaker than the right, Edward remembers, from an old injury, though it only asserts itself in poor weather, and the weather here is all manner of poor. He reaches for the weak leg, coaxes it up onto the bed and offers himself as Thomas’ seat.

Through the wool of their trousers, he feels the solid column of Thomas’ cock as it aligns with his thigh, pressing as Thomas rolls his hips and his breathing comes deeper, more deliberately than before. One of his hands slips between the two of them, and, blindly, his face still tucked against Edward’s shoulder, he finds the front of Edward’s trousers and feels him out. Edward tenses at the sensation, and then that tension leaves him in shudders. The thought of being found-- of being sought out-- is an unfamiliar one. He is much more used to standing on one side of a wide gulf, longing for something on the far coast. Not this, not Thomas turning his hand over to rub his palm along the clothed bulge of Edward’s prick, following the seam of his trousers down between his legs, nearly to the most private part of him with two pointing fingers, and then back up again until he reaches the hem of his waistcoat. Something about this motion makes Edward feel utterly debauched before they have properly done anything more; he moves to grip Thomas’ flanks, only gently, his thumbs barely pressing at all. Thomas leads his own body forward by the hips, presses himself to Edward’s belly and then drags himself down, back into alignment, and as he does so, he lifts his head just enough to see Edward. It feels as much like an invitation as anything, though it is Thomas who undoes their flies, eyes on Edward, opening their trousers by touch and memory. He lifts himself up enough to work the layers of wool and linen down and get himself out, and lets Edward remain sitting. The urge to spread his legs apart is curbed by the fabric around his thighs as he watches Thomas produce a tin of lanolin from the pocket of his coat, hanging nearby. He rubs the grease between his palms as he seats himself over Edward’s thighs, moving gingerly, as if any sudden movement would ruin him. Edward longs to touch him. He does, placing his hand at Thomas’ hip, his wrist brushing the shaft of him just by happenstance. Thomas looks down, directs Edward’s hand with one slick and smelling of wool grease to where his cockstand juts from his body.

“You needn’t feel obliged,” Edward tells him quietly, as if Thomas is not guiding his hand, curling his fingers for him, and Thomas replies, “It’s not a question of obligation.”

Then, he leans forward the scant few inches he can and kisses Edward again. Their foreheads knock together, and they keep them there with no thought to move. Thomas takes himself in hand, and takes Edward, as well. His hand is broad, but not so broad as Edward’s, and it is as warm as it had been as it had cradled Edward’s face as if Thomas had felt something too sacred to disgrace with words. It seems overwhelming and all-encompassing, like a fire, like a tidal wave, like the end of the world and like its beginning, all the same. It rips the breath from Edward’s lungs in great, heavy shudders, and he has to close his eyes against the sensation of dying. As he does, he feels Thomas guide his head to his chest, and he tucks his nose against Thomas’ shoulder, breathing deeply as he steadies himself.

He is not sure of how long he stays that way, but it is long enough for Thomas to say, “You needn’t feel obligated,” and for him to respond in kind.

“It’s not a question of obligation,” he tells Thomas, echoing his words from earlier. “The desire is there-- believe me, there is nothing but desire…”

Thomas hums. He feels Thomas’ fingers smoothing the hair at the nape of his neck, in need of a trim and mussed from his wig.

“A moment,” Edward says. “I only- a moment, please.”

He feels Thomas nod, his cheek brushing the top of his head, as the hand on their cocks disappears. It moves instead to join its brother, stroking Edward’s hair. They sit there in silence, Edward breathing in time with Thomas as he collects himself. Soon, the guilt at the knowledge of Thomas’ flagging arousal wins out over whatever other complicated things he may have felt in the moment, and he nods, nudges Thomas’ cheek to encourage him to resume. Fondles Thomas, cups him in his palm and rubs the heel of his hand against the head of his cock until he is as hard again as he had been. Where he had earlier been quite forward, Thomas now holds himself back, his every motion deliberate as if Edward is something skittish and easily spooked. It is only after a while of this that he reaches for Edward again, puts his hand on his prick, gives it a rolling pull so gentle it might as well be the brush of his own smalls against him.

It is a wonder how Edward’s cockstand can endure Thomas and all his tenderness without rising again. He feels in dismay as it abates, even while Thomas lavishes it with attention, strokes it feather-lightly and with infinite care.

“I could use my mouth,” Thomas offers. He truly does not recognize how generous he is; Edward shakes his head, avoiding looking up at his face or down at their pricks, Thomas’ still bloated and tall, and his own a sad, wrinkled thing in Thomas’ gentle hands. He very nearly says _You needn’t feel obligated_ again, and stops himself.

“I won’t send you on a fool’s errand,” he says instead. His hands tremble as he guides Thomas’ off of and away from his cock, and back towards his own. What he feels is not jealousy, but a wealth of guilt. Shame for his own selfish inadequacy.

It is interrupted by Thomas’ voice.

“May I kiss you, then?” he asks. Shakes his head, and corrects himself. “May I kiss you, rather.”

Edward looks at him. There is no trace of a joke in his face, none that he can find. In all the time they have known each other, Thomas has not been prone to joking at the expense of others, but certainly this deserves mockery.

“You would like to?”

“Very much so.”

“Even after- after this?”

“I should like to kiss you after anything,” Thomas replies, smiling. His hand is still sticky as he cups Edward’s jaw, but most of the grease has worn off on their cocks, leaving only its scent, as well as that of something else heady and intimate. “Pricks out or not.”

Edward is still stunned as he leans towards him, careful to keep away from Edward’s soft but traitorously sensitive cock as he kisses him. It is gentle, much too gentle for him to know what to do with. He cannot contend with finding himself on the receiving end of such a thing, because-

If he dares, he can put a word to it. It is love, the kind that compels poets to rhyme. He feels unworthy of wielding such a thing, because anyone else would know better what to do with it, and he does not know how to give it to Thomas. He may as well give over the whole of himself and hope Thomas can pick apart the package, take only what he wants and leave the rest.

Thomas kisses him again.

“Stop,” says Edward, and then, “wait,” as Thomas pulls away from him as sharply as if he had been ordered to. It had not been what he had intended to say. He does not know what he had intended to say, only that he had not meant to reject Thomas as he had. Before he can think better of it, he grasps at Thomas’ hands, and holds the one he catches between both of his own. It feels silly, them sitting on Edward’s bed, their flies still undone, cocks still out, Thomas’ waning from its stand and Edward’s limp against his thigh. There are so many things he wants to say. He wants to tell Thomas of the long walk they might-- must-- undertake in just a few months’ time, when the winter starts to loosen its hold on the crews. He wants to ask him of his family, of the people waiting for him back in England who miss him and who fervently await his return. He wants to promise him all manner of things, from companionship to promotion, from employment to immortality. Most of all, he wants to communicate something incommunicable and he wants it to be understood immediately, entirely, without qualification. Love is only the short of it.

“You were right,” he tells him, “when you said you would keep me, whether or not I wanted you to or not. Not because I don’t want you to, after all, but because all the parts of me that matter are yours anyway.” With a small, nervous laugh, he adds, “That includes my heart, if you see fit to keep it and do what you will with it.”

For a while, Thomas does not reply, until he lifts his hand and lays it over Edward’s breast, over the thrum of his heart. It sings out in recognition of its owner, Edward can feel it race under Thomas’ hand.

“Then it’s an even trade,” Thomas breathes, at long last. “I would hate to take something of yours without giving you something in return.”

“You need-”

“‘Needn’t feel obligated’?” He laughs. “No, I’m afraid you left me no choice but to relinquish it to your care.”

“I hope to be worthy of it someday,” Edward says. “I want to be.”

“Do you?”

“Desperately so.” Perhaps he has not wanted anything so badly in his entire life. He certainly cannot think of anything past it.

“Then stay,” Thomas tells him. “Let me keep you. You will let me, won’t you?”

Preparations are underway to walk out. With any luck, they will meet up with Fairholme’s party and traders from Hudson’s Bay Company somewhere along their route, and they will be supplied with enough provisions to last them until true rescue can be found. If this expedition has taught Edward anything, though, it is that luck is something best not to anticipate. Its absence cannot fill empty stomachs.

“Yes,” he answers, and hopes time will not make a liar out of him.

**Author's Note:**

> well, lads, this was a strange one.  
> i'm on [tumblr](http://edward-little.tumblr.com).


End file.
